


There Is Nothing Sweeter

by InsanelyYours96



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Return to Sanity, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22305481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanelyYours96/pseuds/InsanelyYours96
Summary: “You have a choice,” he informs his soulmate casually. “Either absorb your horcruxes, or see them destroyed.”
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 19
Kudos: 305





	There Is Nothing Sweeter

Harry has seen his name on the Dark Lord’s wrists many times. Enough to know that their bond is not somehow unrequited. Voldemort stared at it often, alone or not, tracing the increasingly legible writing with bright eyes. The habit was as obsessive as his desire to find and kill Harry. 

This is the first time he sees what is written on the Dark Lord’s other wrist, however, and he can’t help but laugh. Because the brand is achingly familiar, for all that it circles both of Harry’s own wrists.

Voldemort frowns, as if confused by his reaction, and it takes a long moment for Harry to reign himself in.

“You face your death with a laugh, Harry Potter?” 

“You are not my death,” he says. “At least, not yet.” 

He twists his wand and a set of objects appear. Voldemort jolts, mouth twisting in fury and outrage. Harry’s wand sparks with the beginnings of Fiendfyre.

“You have a choice,” he informs his soulmate casually. “Either absorb your horcruxes, or see them destroyed.” 

“Avada Kedavra!” 

A pebble takes the brunt of the attack, falling to dust. Harry’s wand remains trained on the horcruxes. “I can do this all day,” he smiles. “Too bad you placed anti-summoning spells on all of your horcruxes. Do you think you can kill me before I burn them?” 

Red eyes watch him closely, searching for any hint of weakness. People are most dangerous when they are trapped; Harry knows this. He could wait for the countermove, or give Voldemort a little incentive not to kill him. Doubt should do, though he’ll hardly be lying to the man. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t be mortal,” he says. “You’ll still have this one.”

And Harry brushes aside his bangs, thumb trailing across his scar.

Voldemort blinks. “ _Impossible,"_ he hisses.

“ _Then why, do you think, can I speak to snakes? Why can I see through your eyes, and Nagini’s? Why can you implant visions in my head?_ ”

Being soulmates could explain most of those things, but not all. Besides which Voldemort had already assured himself that Harry was not his soulmate.

 _Lord Voldemort_ the Dark Lord’s left wrist read, and he had been too stupid to head the warning. You couldn’t be your own soulmate, but you could be your own worst enemy. 

“Ridiculous,” Voldemort snarls, but Harry can feel his doubt. His black rage. His burgeoning understanding.

“Aren’t you?” Harry smiles sweetly back. “Fifteen seconds.” 

“You think Lord Voldemort capable of feeling regret?” 

“I think that you are clever, even in your insanity. I think you have fail safes. And I _know_ that you’ve come up with a spell _just in case_.” Harry holds Voldemort’s gaze, not even wincing at the agony of his scar. “I think it’s time to use it. Five seconds.” 

Red eyes close. Acceptance. Fury. A promise for revenge.

Voldemort says the incantation.

It is no short spell; he speaks for one minute, and then two, and then five. By the time he is done every one of his soul receptacles have lit up, including Harry’s scar. But unlike the rest of the horcruxes, save Nagini who was given a sleeping potion, Harry has a will. He can fight against the magic, and does, even if his scar has never given him anything but trouble. 

One by one specters rise from their containers. Tom Riddle at varying ages. Harry watches them pass warily, but none have eyes for anything but their original soul piece. They converge on him all at once, and Voldemort falls to the floor with a scream of pain, fury, denial. 

They become one. 

An unconscious one. 

One with a nose.

Harry smiles. “Piper,” he calls, and the Dark Lord’s house elf appears. She stares at him with bulbous eyes that dart nervously to the unconscious form of her master. “Please bring the Dark Lord to his chambers, and give him this note when he wakes up.”

Piper does as he asks. 

Harry raises his wand once she's gone, feeling the breadth of the apparition wards and finding where they overlap with other spells. He takes a deep breath and twists through, spinning on his heel.

The trip is more exhausting than exhilarating this time. He arrives in Potter Manor and collapses into a chair. 

_Well_ , he thinks, surprised and smug in turn, _that had gone to plan_.

Now he would wait, and see what the newly-sane Dark Lord would decide to do. 

It takes a week for Voldemort to contact him with a time, a place, and a portkey. 

Harry does not touch the envelope, and reads the letter from a distance. He banishes the portkey and counters the offer.

The same date and time in a public space - in Magical France. Where the Dark Lord could not risk making enemies, not before he had conquered his own country. 

Harry does not receive a threat in response, but an agreement. He swallows his surprise, and tries to do the same with his hope. 

They meet at a small but classy restaurant. Harry arrives early, just as Voldemort sweeps inside. He is glad that Voldemort can not see his initial reaction to his appearance, cannot see the way his cheeks grow faintly pink, his eyes widen, his lips part. 

In the week separating them Voldemort has regrown his hair, and Harry had almost forgotten what the sight of Tom Riddle’s soft curls inspire in him. He takes a breath and relies on his Occlumency to settle him. He follows Voldemort inside.

Emilie is being charmed by Voldemort at the reception counter, her blush only deepening when she spots him. Voldemort turns, and the sight of sharp brown eyes shouldn’t surprise him, but Harry still jolts a bit. It seems to be the only glamour Voldemort bothered with. Harry is glad he chose to meet in Nice. He would have to deal with Dumbledore, otherwise. The man had far too many spies in London. 

“Hadrian! Welcome, it’s a pleasure to see you again. Am I right to assume that this is who you will be meeting with, sir?” 

Voldemort watches as he draws close, not sparing her a glance even as he agrees. Harry holds his gaze, then turns to smile, nodding his own greeting.

“The pleasure is all mine, Emilie. I believe we have the table in the back?”

“Yes, Isabelle just set it. If you’ll follow me?”

Voldemort makes no move. Not willing to turn his back on Harry? Smart. Harry quirks his brow at him and stops at his side.

“Walk with me?” he requests. Something indecipherable shoots through Voldemort’s eyes. Harry is curious, but he had stopped feeling Voldemort’s emotions days ago. They walk to the table together.

Harry pauses, letting Voldemort chose. Unsurprisingly he sits with his back to the wall, in Harry’s preferred spot. You could see the entire room from there.

Still, Harry had chosen this place for a reason. None of Voldemort’s Death Eater’s would be able to slip past Emilie. No enemies would be at his back.

They sit in time, and are left after giving their drink orders. Privacy barriers immediately fall into place.

“So,” Harry says, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “Why did you want to meet?” 

Voldemort looks unimpressed, but that could just be Harry’s self-esteem talking. Harry waits him out patiently. 

“You are my soulmate,” the Dark Lord says without preamble. He pauses.

“Yes, I know,” Harry says. “It’s why I returned what I did.”

Voldemort’s nostrils flare. “When did you figure it out?”

Harry laughs. “It wasn’t difficult,” he says. “I’ve always known.” 

He folds up his sleeve and removes his bracelet, leaving both wrists bare. _Lord Voldemort,_ it says. On both.

Voldemort blinks. “I see,” he says. Long, pale fingers rise, as if to touch. Voldemort pauses. “May I?”

Harry smirks. “Now you ask?” 

Voldemort meets his eyes. “Yes,” he says firmly. “Now I ask.” 

Something flutters in Harry’s chest, and he closes his eyes and take a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “Yes.” 

Voldemort’s touch is featherlight against his mark, and Harry opens his eyes. His expression makes Harry’s breath catch - a hint of awe, a hint of disbelief, a plethora of possessiveness. 

Voldemort’s previous impassiveness makes sense. His emotions are a deadly weapon.

Harry swallows, and Voldemort’s gaze darts up, pinning him in place. He can feel the way his cheeks have flushed again, and lets his eyes fall to where Voldemort is still touching him. _Caressing_ him. His free hand rises, setting atop Voldemort’s fingers. Pressing them closer. Stilling them. 

“May I?” he asks in return.

“Yes,” Voldemort breathes. Harry grips cold fingers and turns Voldemort’s arm, his magic pressing up the robe for him. He looks at the mark he has seen many times before, on the arm of a shade from a diary, in a graveyard, in so very many visions.

He hums, trailing his fingers over it lightly. Voldemort may appear calm, but his pulse is thudding too-quick against Harry’s fingers. He smiles, looking up. Voldemort’s eyes are half-lidded and dark, red peeking from behind brown.

Harry strokes the words once more, and releases him. He pushes his bracelet back in place, along with his sleeve. The drinks arrive.

“Are you ready to order, Hadrian?” Their gaze breaks. 

“Give us a moment, please, my… companion still needs to look at the menu.” 

“There’s no need,” Voldemort disagrees mildly. “Order for me.”

If Harry is startled by the request, he doesn’t let it show, though he does turn to stare at Voldemort for another moment. “Alright… the usual for myself, please, and a confit de canard, with roasted potatoes, garlic and a side salad. Vinaigrette dressing, no tomatoes.”

Red eyes widen a touch. The waitress leaves.

“No tomatoes?” Voldemort asks.

“The last time tomatoes made their way onto your plate, you used the cruciatus on your house elf. I suspect you dislike them.”

Voldemort hums, neither agreeing or disagreeing. “How often were you in my head?”

“Less often than you fear, more often than you’d prefer,” Harry says blithely. “Not at all this past week.”

“That’s not a sufficient answer,” Voldemort returns. “But I will get it out of you soon enough.”

“How frightening,” Harry deadpans.

“Actually, it could be rather pleasurable.”

Harry blinks. Swallows.

Point to Voldemort.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment on your way out. :)


End file.
